– research on commedia dell’arte, vaudeville, slapstick, original marriage of figaro, process of adaptation
– write something to put in a program?
– collect images to make a wall of or something?
– make mix cd of Ben Charest/ Tango Tosca Orchestra for Jac
Native American Literature
– research on Santee Sioux for class presentation (10/2)
– close reading on Dawes Act, Act to provide…, and Charles Eastman
– three reflections on storytelling project
– 4-5 pg paper on Don Alvaro o el fuerzo del sino (needless to say, in Spanish) (10/3)
– god knows. more research on Satie/Jeremiah/La Tours/Hamlet?
– maybe actually write something?
– find recording of danses gothiques which no library is willing to lend out, the bitches
Theater, Community, Collaboration
– god knows. watch the daily show/colbert report?
– study abroad questionaire so I can sign up for classes next semester (10/10)
– get kitty a scratching post
– buy herbs
– clean room
– get stitches removed next week?
– pierce something in honor of ataraxia being performed?
– sleep (but not too much)?
I’m only really signed up for 3 academic classes this semester but somehow I’m doing the work for 5. Whoops.
working on a play i guess that deals with art that has hit me in some way or another, and running into music is more or less inevitable, especially music that i can actually play/participate in. i’ve always loved gymnopédie #1 and now i’m starting to love #3 too, and the more i learn about Satie, about his weird little life, the more i love them. because in playing those songs, however poorly and humbly, i am still participating in the physical action that he created – playing those notes at those times. and that brings a strange feeling of … intimacy, i guess. of knowing a little bit about what it must have been like to be in his skin.
He cried. He cried and I watched and cried too.
And we flipped through this notebook, through the past two years or so with every little confession of mine laid out, opened neatly, exposed in a way that I had never been before.
His eyes were red and I saw them, the tears, running down his face. I held him in the dark as he sobbed and told me things about himself, about being trapped by two opposite undeniable choices, about believing in nothing and believing in everything.
There is so much more in him that needs to be told.
I want to help him. I want him to be happy, because as [important] as every tear that I had only imagined existed was, I never want him to feel that way again.
We are so young and so old.
I love him so much, and each of these little crises seems to make me love him even more.
Is he hurt now, in this moment?
(Please don’t let him ever feel lonely.)
I want him to be free, to be happy with loving me.
But I want him to be with me, too. So badly.
Can we work this out? Can we be happy together?
(Can we make this last?)
I haven’t spoken to you properly for a while.
Help us both through this.
I want to protect him so badly.
I really don’t want to write this next part, because I love him too much, too fiercely, and I am dependent on him.
Give your hearts unto the hands of Life…
Thy will be done.
Let tomorrow be good.
does he love me?
so many doubts. do I annoy him with my neediness, my uncertainty, my self-justification, my mood swings and constant need of affirmation?
in the end, the question may boil down to whether or not i am worth loving.
listening to the rain…
will he call? doubt it.
if he does, will he want to see me?
am i in good enough shape for that?
spilling open is a messy business.
but i’m a mess anyways.
i miss you, and i’m a loser without you.
break me apart, finger by finger, rib by rib.
(the origin of love)
(it’s so easy to do)
razor blades and tongues
waiting for rain and fog and cool air and tall trees and sublime nakedness.
what will happen if i get pregnant?
your future will not resemble what you are thinking of now.
that doesn’t mean it’ll be worse; it also doesn’t mean that you’ll be a writer and otherwise keep your self-respect.
the thing i fear most is wasting my life, living day to joyless day knowing that i’m just taking up oxygen.
i have to make my life have meaning no matter what happens.
please. help me be the hero of my own story.
i hope i’m not pregnant.
i’m 18 years old.
i’m an adult now.
10 and the phone is quiet.
why does this always happen?
muse sleepover vs. him
God’s joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flowerbed.
As roses, up from the ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
til one day it cracks open.
So I’ve been the dramaturg for “One Mad Day” for about two weeks now, and some of it is really cool, and some of it just leaves me wondering what the hell I’m actually doing here. I’ve been doing a lot of the physical warmups with the cast because they need an even number of bodies and I’m usually wearing sneakers, and some of that has been fun, but a lot of it has pretty much been reassuring me that acting is not really one of my talents, or at least not improvisational acting. Some of it I think I could do, but I need a character to become, a backstory, instead of just a situation and an adjective. Maybe with me it isn’t even acting. It’s just finding some part of myself that I don’t think about too often. In which case it’s not acting in the sense of pretending, it’s just… bringing other parts of myself to the surface. Which doesn’t really work for “grab the cookie” or anything like that.
We’ve started actually rehearsing somewhat, and then especially I don’t know what my role is exactly. To listen, I guess, and speak if I’m spoken to? I’m not used to having that passive of a role, and it’s been hard for me to learn to keep my mouth shut when I have ideas because ultimately that’s not what I’m there for. I don’t think. And then part of me just starts feeling tired and useless and empty by the time rehearsal is over and I go and collapse at home and try to figure out how to put myself together again.
Sometimes the idea of finally letting gravity take over is extremely tempting. There’s only so long you can stand upright without something holding you up. But those are dark thoughts for so early in the day.
And a Partridge in a Pear Tree
[in reality, there are so many quotes in this book that has moved my life even though i haven’t read it in years, but the idea of this one keeps popping up.]
started this class, one which i’m quite excited for. i had had an idea that the main focus of my advanced playwriting independent study would be interviewing local tribes to record their storytelling – not just the story but the oral tradition, the theatricality of, in real-time, relating a sequence of events to another person. i think what i like best about theater is its roots in storytelling tradition – not only straight out verbal narratives but the silent theater of dance and expression and gesture and timing that nevertheless creates a world. the oral tradition combines both linguistic mastery and this sense of dance – how the storyteller physically changes their expression, their posture, their vocal pitch, their breathing and their timing – so the story relates not only the information present in the meaning of words but all of the wordless context of the story, of the teller and whoever told it to them, of the audience. i tend toward monologues when i write plays. toward… people explaining themselves to someone else as honestly as possible. to me explaining myself to someone as honestly as possible.
because every explanation is an act of theater, of acting in fact, is it not? my professor condemns followers of “method acting,” saying that it isn’t really acting, saying that the idea “acting is believing” is entirely false, but i can’t agree with her. i think that people act whenever they know someone is watching. which isn’t the same as dishonesty by any means, although in some cases it may be, but the simple fact that people act differently when they are aware of being watched. and theater, all art really, is deliberately making oneself be watched (terribly passive construction, i know). which isn’t to belittle art into calling it a cry for attention by historonic individuals, because i do believe that it is more, that art can be transcendent even if its origins may have been a cry for attention, but a somewhat inevitable product of human consciousness.
i think that we forget that the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge gave us not only the awareness of what was good and what was evil, but what was beautiful and what was not. somehow i can’t help but think that morality and aesthetics go hand in hand.
going on a tangent, this is more meant as a place to put down quotes.
“The Indians are a looking-glass into the souls of North Americans. If we want to dissect the Anglo and analyze his character we must find out what he does when no one else cares, when no one is in a position to thwart his will – when he can do as he pleases. And with the Indian the Anglo has done what he pleased, with no one to care, and with the Indian ultimately too weak to resist, except passively.” – Prof. Jack D. Forbes
“Writing for me is the ultilization of language, and “the utilization of language” means referring to the oral tradition. So that the oral tradition is fundamental to how the language you learn and develop in writing then expresses itself in the contemporary period, in writing. It’s not a step removed or even a bridge crossed, but actually part of that path or road or journey that you are walking. … You recognize your birth as coming from a specific place, but that place is more than just a physical or geological place, but obviously a spiritual place, a place with the whole scheme of life, the universe, the whole scheme and power of creation. Place is the source of who you are in terms of your identity, the language that you are born into and that you come to use.” – Simon Ortiz
i wish that i had roots. but i’m hardly the only one without them. i think that the ambiguous concept of “america” is ultimately rootless, created by increasingly rootless people who are instead just scraping the surface but gaining no traction or drifting altogether.
i could go on and on about how much this subject matters to me, but it’s time to sleep.